We Play Their Games
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: On a day at the mines, Mr. Everdeen and Mr. Hawthorne whistle 'The Hanging Tree.' A Peacekeeper hears the tune. The mine explosion that afternoon, at three-fourteen, isn't an accident. It's a containment. It's a public display of failed insurrection.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Hunger Games.**

 **This is a one-shot for Noah, who requested a HG fanfic where Mr. Everdeen talks with a co-worker the day of KABLOOEY. Merry Christmas, Noah. :)**

 **Travis is Mr. Everdeen and Beatrice is Mrs. Everdeen. Just FYI. (*fades away so you can continue reading uninterrupted*)  
**

Travis kisses the top of Katniss's sleeping head. He bestows the same warmth to the sister she snuggles with in their pathetic, lukewarm bed. When he rises to stand, he doesn't take his eyes off of his sleeping daughters. They go through so much hardship, and unless something changes in their lifetime, will continue to do so for the rest of their lives. He enjoys the moments he can see them at peace—even if those moments only come when they're sleeping.

"I'll see you tonight," Beatrice says to him in the doorway. She gives him a faint smile that beautifies her face and he kisses her on their threshold. Never mind the cold air and the whisper of snow riding on the wind into their small excuse for a house. With Katniss and Primrose holding each other and Travis and Beatrice sharing lips, they're plenty warm.

"Do you have your lunchbox?" Beatrice says, once she's recovered herself.

Travis holds up his tin box; his lunch of hard bread and squirrel jerky has to be completely covered, lest coal dust poisons it. Everything in the Seam is rubbed with coal dust, but he can try. "Present and accounted for."

Beatrice can't stop playing with the buttons on his shirt. If she stops, she'll have to let him go. Let him go to perform the hard manual labor that runs their trains and keeps the fat cats of the Capitol warm and toasty in their homes. But finally she finishes her final fickle and says, "Have a good day, Travis."

"Tell the girls I said Good morning."

"I will."

He stops halfway out to look at the three most important people in his life. He watches his daughters breathe in peace and his wife look after him. And despite all the dust, a smile is distinguishable on his worn, handsome face.

The walk through the Seam to the mines is full of slush that eats through thin soles. It's a daily trek, a march that isn't walked alone. Like they all heard an invisible call, the miners walked in unison, in silence, with nothing but the sound of their footsteps filling the air.

A line forms outside the mines office. One by one they walk in, get their hard hat and pick axes and pick up a card and get it manually punched. A Peacekeeper stands by with his Glock, making sure no one messes up their records, or covers for a buddy. No illegal play will happen under the watchful eye of the Capitol.

No one says a word; small talk is unnecessary, and once the mine workers are in elevators, any long conversation is deemed a drain on the Capitol's purse; work, not talk, on the clock.

Travis steps into the flock of men smashed into the metal elevator; he shifts around until he's packed in just the same as them, like a tin of sardines.

"Busy day," he says to a man he's seen for years but never really talked to.

The man nods back. He's got the same looks as Travis; olive skin, dark hair, grey eyes. Like all the men in the Seam. But Travis knows more about this man, since he's seen him out of their collective element; he's seen him off-work. The man's name is Len Hawthorne; when their late shift's let out, Travis walks home to his girls, and Len walks home to his boys. He's got three of them, and a pregnant wife.

"Isn't it always," Len says. He's got a tight set to his jaw.

The elevator lights blink and the tiny room stops moving. The men shift as the elevator settles; an alarm blares as the entrance door passes to the right, and men file out.

Travis passes an eye on the Peacekeeper standing next to the elevator; the Peacekeepers are a fixture here, so no one really pays them any mind. Travis does; he sees them as a visible sign of the Capitol's oppressive hand on them. They're there to remind the coal miners to keep their heads down, to come in and work and then go out and survive, day in and day out, like ants.

Len passes an eye on the Peacekeeper, too. His jaw tightens more.

Travis walks away, losing himself in the pack of men heading through the west tunnel. He distinguishes himself by only one thing: he whistles a tune. It's a wonderful tune, though no one knows the words.

Except Len Hawthorne. His head jerks around and he scrambles past other co-workers, climbing his way through to get to this thoughtless Travis Everdeen.

Len grabs him by the collar and thrusts him against the hard wall of the mine; his headlight on his hard hat shines in Travis's eyes. "What are you thinking? Got hit in the head by a loose rock, Everdeen? You want a Peacekeeper beating, or do you want to be a public display of failed insurrection?"

Travis only says, surprised, "You know it—the song."

"'The Hanging Tree.' It's an old Seam song. Of course I know it. I also know you can't sing it. Not when you live in District Twelve, especially when you have family, or work in a Capitol-controlled mine. You're unlucky enough to be damned with all three." Len's hold doesn't loosen on Travis's collar.

"You're angry." Travis's mouth bends with a little humor. "Takes one to know one." He nods away from them. "Peacekeepers are coming. Better break it up, Hawthorne."

Len grunts but lets go of Travis. When a Peacekeeper asks, "What's going on here?" Len just says, "He cut in front of me."

"Break it up and get to work." The Peacekeeper walks away; he looks more like a robot than a human being.

Len and Travis walk side by side towards the west. Each carry a pick axe and their lunch boxes.

"It's an antagonizing song," Travis says finally.

Len doesn't say anything.

"I like the sound, the tune of it. When you sing it in the woods, birds stop to listen."

Len stops, surprised anger on his face. "You can't talk about being in the woods, Everdeen."

"What is there to talk about, then, besides rebellious stunts against the Capitol behind their back?" Travis mutters in a whisper.

"Anything. This year's Hunger Games. Our coal quota. The freezing weather. _Anything_ else." Len Hawthorne shakes his head and hurries ahead.

Travis keeps up with him. "When you only talk about stuff the Capitol wants you to talk about, you're playing into their hand, Hawthorne. You're playing their game."

"We all play their Games," Len says. "We had names in the ball, and we have kids in the ball. We have to watch the Hunger Games. We have to keep silent. We play their Games."

"We also risk our lives in their mines," Travis says. His eyes rack over the low cragged ceilings and harsh walls. "We play their Games." Silence lives for a few moments. Then he says, "Someday, we should change the rules. We should turn their Games on them."

"We can't do that. Ever," Len says.

"Why not?" Travis asks. "You mean we're supposed to live like this forever?"

"Yes. Because if we don't, your daughter will be in the Hunger Games, and so will my son, and the rest of the Seam will be made a public example. Next District over will see our smoke."

Len stops, and says, sighing, "That why we can't do that. Ever."

"But that's why we _have_ to," Travis says urgently. "Because Katniss is going to have her first name in the ball next year. Because your son's name is in there too many times."

"Not while I have a pregnant wife. Not while I have two other sons, and you have another daughter," Len argues.

Travis says nothing; then, before he moves forward, he says, "They're not safe, either."

Len watches Travis pass in front of him; 'The Hanging Tree' is whistled again.

Another voice joins Travis's: the canary sent down below each morning, to make sure noxious gases aren't present. It joins with Travis's like it wants a companion.

Another voice joins: Len's.

A choir of whistles rise up from the mine as other miners join. They might not know the lyrics or the risk to their lives it brings, but it boosts their morale. Somehow adds a spring to their step.

A Peacekeeper hears the tune.

The mine explosion that afternoon, at three-fourteen, isn't an accident. It's a containment. It's a public display of failed insurrection.

 **Wow, that was a dark ending. But it was to be expected. :(**

 **Review?**


End file.
